You're What?!. Anne Eames
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next-closest by nearly twenty percent?”
Kevin shrugged. It didn’t surprise him. So where was the problem?
“And that this year you’re ahead of last on a per-week basis?” Paul dropped the paper and leaned back, the creaking of his worn leather chair the only sound for the next few moments.
Kevin watched and waited while Paul studied him over the rims of his half glasses. Finally Kevin propped his elbows on his knees and hunched forward. “What? Just tell me.”
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, my friend…and you’ve lost something along the way.”
Kevin bristled. “Like what?”
“Your sense of humor, for one thing.”
Kevin slapped his hands on his knees, then stood. “I’ll try to get to a comedy club next week. If that’s it, I have work to do.” He turned and started to leave.
“Sit down.” Paul raised his voice, bringing Kevin back around. “We’re not finished.” He pointed to the seat.
Kevin ground his teeth. With great restraint, he lowered himself into the chair, not masking his irritation.
In a quieter voice, Paul continued. “We’ve been friends a long time, guy. I have to tell you, you’re headed for trouble.” He shook his head and smiled. “All work and no play. When was the last time you got—”
Kevin narrowed his eyes and glared. “Is this personal or business? Because if it’s personal—”
“See what I mean? No sense of humor. I was going to ask, before you so rudely interrupted, when was the last time you got eight hours’ sleep? But if you’d care to share other information with me, feel free.”
Kevin slouched back in his seat. “Okay. Guess I had that one coming.” Maybe he was a little uptight lately. If all Paul wanted him to do was shave a few hours off his schedule, he’d see what he could do.
“I’m not going to sit here and say I know how you feel. If my marriage ended like yours…” Kevin looked at the floor between his knees and Paul changed tacks. “It’s been nearly four years, Kev. I know you don’t need the money. Hell, you give more away than most people make. And the new cardiac care wing you donated is fully operational now. You can’t use that project as an excuse anymore.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll cut back.”
Paul took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never pulled rank on you, Kev, but this time’s different. It’ll take more than cutting back. I’ve scheduled you for two weeks’ vacation, beginning April 15th.”
Kevin’s head snapped up. “I can’t. I have surgeries booked—”
“Reschedule.”
“It’s not that easy, I—”
“It never is. If you can’t fix it, I will.”
Kevin held Paul’s even stare. He could see the determination in the set of his boss’s jaw. Kevin could argue, but he knew he wouldn’t win. Besides, there wasn’t time for a major confrontation. “If that’s it, I have to get going.”
Paul’s face relaxed, seeming relieved. “Just one more thing. No seminars or anything work-related. A real vacation.” Kevin was halfway out the door when Paul called out, “Someplace warm, with women in bikinis.”
“Yeah, yeah.” In spite of himself, Kevin smiled over his shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He strode down the hall, raking his hair off his forehead, trying to feel annoyed with the chief, but not succeeding. Actually, a vacation didn’t sound half-bad. Someplace warm, huh? Florida in April was out of the question. With his luck, he’d find himself in the middle of spring break and all those raging hormones. No, something more sedate, maybe farther south.
He pushed open the door to Recovery vowing to do two things on Saturday: get a haircut and visit a travel agency.
As long as he stayed in Recovery, his every thought remained with his patient. But a few minutes later, scrubbing for his second bypass surgery of the day, he let his mind drift back to the conversation with Paul. He despised being ordered around, anyone telling him when, where or what to do. But as the idea took root, he had to admit to feeling a certain amount of excitement. When was the last time he’d taken a real vacation? It had to be before Jessica.
Damn. He was doing it again. Measuring everything in terms of Jessica. Before she this. After she that.
With his sterile hands pointed to the ceiling, he pushed the operating room door open with his back. Later, he’d thank Paul for forcing this command down his throat. But for now, taking a closer look at the young mother of two on the table in front of him, he said a silent prayer, and put all other thoughts from his mind except this young patient and the precarious life he held in his hands.
* * *
For the next two weeks, Michelle worked with a vengeance, refusing to dwell on the calendar and the significance of each passing day.
It was Easter Sunday and she’d planned to go to St. Mary’s for mass, then Greektown for breakfast. But at eight-thirty, as she looked out the seventh-floor window of her waterfront apartment, ice pelted against the glass and she changed her mind. The Detroit River and Windsor beyond hid behind a curtain of sleet and gray. A melancholy settled over her sparsely furnished apartment. It was too quiet. Too empty. She started a CD of Streisand’s biggest hits and tightened her robe around her waist. Holidays were the toughest.
It’d been over two years since her parents’ fatal accident, right on the heels of her divorce. As an only child, she’d grown up with a lot of time to herself, but never completely alone. The last Easter she spent with Mom and Dad, they’d still hidden bright-colored eggs all over their Traverse City home. And pretending to be too old for such games, she’d happily gathered them up, thinking the game would never end, that there would be many more Easters.
Michelle settled into the recliner facing the window, covered her legs with her mother’s handmade afghan, and picked up a romance novel from the table alongside the chair. She read two chapters before she set the book down and stared out the frosty glass. Until this very moment, she hadn’t admitted there was something else weighing on her mind. And it had nothing to do with the weather or missing her parents. It had everything to do with the mild cramping in her midsection. She threw back the afghan and marched to the bathroom, angry with herself for postponing the inevitable. A quick check would tell her whether her fears were substantiated.
They were.
Numb with disappointment, she dragged herself to the kitchen.
“Enough, Purdue.” She swiped at a lone tear with the back of her hand and sniffled loudly, then slapped a filter into the coffee maker. While the brew dripped through, she found a yellow legal pad and pencil. A moment later, she poured her coffee and took everything to the table.
Making lists always empowered her; crossing things off gave her a sense of accomplishment. For the next hour she wrote out her plan…Call clinic, make another appointment, continue taking temperature daily, log results, finish urgent jobs within two weeks, clear calendar for week following, call travel agent, make reservations for someplace warm…
She chewed the end of the pencil and lingered on the last entry. After the first insemination she’d buried herself in work to keep her mind occupied. Maybe the pace and tension had ruined whatever chances she’d had. This time she’d give her mind, as well as her body, a well-deserved break. But where should she go?
Restless, she pushed out of her chair and began pacing the small area from the table to the living room window, finally stopping at the window after half a dozen turns. The sleet had stopped. Windsor was now in clear view. Idly she watched cars making their way along the Detroit River on the Canadian side. Her apartment was small, the rent steep. But this was why she’d signed the lease. She never tired of the awe-inspiring